


Rage

by HopeCoppice



Series: Notches [1]
Category: Young Dracula
Genre: Backstory, Gen, History, Murder, Quest, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:46:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertrand decides he may as well seek the Chosen One.<br/>Chronologically speaking, this is the First Notch.<br/>(Post order 3/7)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage

It had been fifty years, and Bertrand was still furious at the hand fate had dealt him. Bad enough that he had been pushed so hard from his earliest infancy, forced to become the perfect assassin, the ideal soldier, the consummate spy. To find that it had always been leading up to his death at the hands – well, fangs – of the vampire who’d been paying for his terrible childhood was too much. He could hardly be blamed for his actions.

His sire had told him his destiny, charged him with a sacred duty to protect a worn old book and sent him out in the world to seek the one who would be able to read it. Freed from the bonds the bite had formed, he had tried to burn the book. Something had stopped him at the last minute; books had been his secret escape in his miserable youth and he couldn’t quite bring himself to destroy this one, no matter how weird it was. Still, that didn’t mean he was going to seek out the Chosen One and deliver it. No, he was going travelling.

Half a century later, he had travelled the globe all he wanted to, and while he was still angry, he was also bored. Eternal unlife without purpose didn’t appeal to Bertrand, and so he had decided to take up the quest he’d been sent on, if only to pass the time. Besides, if there _was_ some all-powerful vampire out there, he could make himself very valuable to them. He had a specialist skill set most of the Council sycophants would slay for; a little wealth and power would do him nicely if he had to stick around for a few centuries.

It was with high hopes, then, that he arrived at Malbork Castle. The Polish fortification was currently occupied by the remnants of a clan of Swedish vampires and their army. The head of this particular clan was generally agreed by scholars of the Chosen One prophecies to be the most likely candidate for the role at the moment, and he’d sent a very polite letter to the Council demanding that he be recognised as rightful leader of the vampires. Bertrand had been told to go and check out his claim.

Waldemar Tryggve Elovsson was considered by most to be young and charismatic – just one hundred and fifty years old, he had suffered the great misfortune of all his relatives disappearing or dying one by one. The only remaining family member was his mother, five hundred years old and more than happy to bask in her son’s glory from the shadows behind the throne. Between them, they had inherited a great deal of wealth from Kristoffer Elovsson, and the corridors and rooms Bertrand was ushered through bore testament to their love of opulence.

He was a little nervous, actually; he’d read everything there was to read about the Chosen One, on his way to get back in contact with the Council, and he knew how the book was supposed to respond if it encountered the right vampire, but he wasn’t sure what to expect now he was finally there. He didn’t get much chance to worry, however, as Waldemar called him forwards, seated on an ornate throne.

“You must be Bertrand du Fortunesa. I’m told you have a book of mine.” Bertrand’s unbeating heart lifted as he knelt reverently at the other vampire’s feet; this was the Chosen One, the one he was destined to serve, and he hoped to be well rewarded for it.  
“It belongs to the one who can open it,” he clarified as he held the Praedictum Impaver out, waiting for the tell-tale spark that would prove Elovsson’s claim. The older vampire reached out a hand to stroke the cover thoughtfully and Bertrand tensed... but then the moment passed.

Waldemar tried to take the book out of his hands, but Bertrand was frozen to the spot, book clutched tightly.  
“You’re not the one.” The words were flat, empty. His quest had been for nothing. This was not the Chosen One. Still, he could be polite. “I’m sorry.” Elovsson frowned, then gestured for his guards to leave.  
“A misunderstanding. Leave us.” Then only Bertrand, Elovsson and his mother remained. “What do you mean, boy?” Bertrand rose to his feet, head bowed respectfully as he stepped backwards, taking the book with him.  
“The book doesn’t recognise you. You’re not the Chosen One.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous! Give it here!” Waldemar Elovsson drew himself up to his full height and towered over Bertrand, trying to rip the book from his grasp.  
“It isn’t yours to take.”  
“Impudent boy! What right does a half-fang have to deny _my_ birthright and _my_ destiny?” The sound of his hand connecting with Bertrand’s face echoed in the hall, and the younger vampire stumbled back, sinking to one knee in order to regain his balance. Waldemar sneered, but before he could say anything more Bertrand was back on his feet, and moving fast.

He hadn’t asked to be a half-fang. He hadn’t asked to become the guardian of this stupid book. He hadn’t asked Waldemar to pretend to the Chosen One’s title, and he certainly hadn’t asked to be mistreated thus. The stake was in his hand before he even realised he’d drawn it, and then it was in Waldemar’s chest, and the pretender was crumbling to dust around it.

“No! My son, our power-” His mother rushed forwards and Bertrand watched her disintegrate too, leaving nothing but a large quantity of dust on the floor. He reeled backwards, glad that there were no witnesses to this. What had he done? At least it was still dark; he launched himself out of the nearest window. Perhaps if he got to the Council quickly, he could make his excuses and beg to be pardoned.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried; the Council couldn’t be more pleased with the way the issue had been resolved. He was paid well and dismissed; they would call him if anyone else laid claim to the title. He went home, to France, avoiding the little village where nobody would remember him. He carved a single notch into his stake, and he waited, wondering if, maybe, there would be another Waldemar one day. One who really was special, who really could open the book.

Maybe next time he was called, it would be to meet the Chosen One.


End file.
